Ashes to ashes

Today being Ash Wednesday, I went to church. It was a joint service with a church nearby, it was as sparsely attended as might be expected (not everyone shares my enthusiasm for liturgical solemnity), and it was at 7:30 in the evening.

In high school, when I was first able to drive myself places, I started going to church before school on Ash Wednesday. These days it would take a lot more than repentance to get me up that early, but I liked having the ashes on my forehead all day. They showed people who I was. Specifically, they showed people that I was the kind of person who got up at ungodly hours for godly purposes. They showed people what a religious badass I was. Sort of like all the years I secretly looked forward to Lent because I got to feel hardcore explaining to people why I couldn't eat that delicious looking donut.

In college, my church had a noon service, so I went to that one. It wasn't quite as badass, I suppose, but I still got to walk around campus with a big gray smudge on my forehead for most of the day, so that was good.

I remember one of my friends in high school remarking cynically (as she often did with regard to the church) how every Ash Wednesday, people gathered and listened to Matthew 6, about fasting in secret and not letting anyone know, and promptly went and did the exact opposite by getting smeared up with ashes. And honestly, because even then I knew deep down why I had gotten up so early, I kind of agreed with her. Isn't walking around with a big smudgy cross on your face just a big, meaningless show of piety?

That's why part of me was glad our service was later this year. I got my smudgy cross and went home, watched Modern Family, wrote this, and will proceed to shower off the ashes. The outside world knows nothing of my piety, and my immortal soul is probably better off for it.

But then again, I miss those early morning ashes. Because they do help you remember that there's something different about the day. Today I barely remembered it was anything but Wednesday. I didn't have to be careful pushing my bangs back. No well-meaning stranger said, "Hey, you got a little something..." Today wasn't solemn, and I didn't feel repentant, and except for a semi-treacherous run in the street and several Facebook posts on my newsfeed reminding me that I was returning to dust, I certainly didn't think about my mortality.

And I didn't get to see someone someone else with a smudgy forehead and smile at them, knowing we shared something. I missed that too. Maybe what we share is the religious badassery of getting up early to repent, but maybe, maybe, it's something more as well. Maybe those ashes do show people whose mark we bear, and remind us to act worthy of it. Maybe.

If anyone's reading--thoughts??